


Ivory to Ebony

by Snekki_Boi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Fall (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24045409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snekki_Boi/pseuds/Snekki_Boi
Summary: Everyone remembers the heavenly battle, where the Rebellion was crushed and Fallen. It's not talked about anymore. But Crowley remembers.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

The skies were aflame in alarming red. What once stood as regal gold had melted into divine judgement raining upon the heavens. There were torn feathers and streaks of blood and shrieks of battle cries ringing out all through the darkest day of Heaven. It was brothers and sisters against each other, armed with their furies and hate-born loyalties. Crowley had found a corner where he could keep to, avoiding most of the battle. He was heaving with shock and exertion of miracles to be left alone. He knew it was cowardly to run from battle, but he had no desire to fight, much less kill, his brethren. It took him a moment to realize that he was shaking, mumbling rapid prayers under his breath that drained into a single word. _Why?_

Crowley jerked left, narrowly avoiding a burning blast over his shoulder. He stared at the angel who threw it--an archangel with disdainful eyes. Crowley spread his wings defensively, uncertain of what to do. Then another angel flew in, tackling the archangel. Crowley fled, unable to stomach seeing the fall of the blade or hear the pained cries of a last breath. His wings worked fast to propel him forward, though the skies were no less dangerous than the battle grounds. Smoke and fire hailed around Crowley as he wove his way around the battle, tears stinging his eyes. _Why? God, why?_ He saw angels falling, angels screaming, angels crying out. It was too much. 

"GOD, WHY?!" 

. . . 

Crowley woke to the soft light of sunrise. Or so he thought. To be honest, he wasn't sure at all what time it was. The demon pulled himself up and stretched, limbs contorting in ways that a human shouldn't be able to accomplish and popping their bones. He gave a yawn and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, sliding out of bed in search for his angel. He found Aziraphale in the kitchen, taking a kettle off the stove while he had his nose stuck in a book, glasses slightly askew on his nose. Crowley almost laughed at the comical scene before him. Instead, he just approached Aziraphale--poor angel was so distracted that he didn't even notice--and straightened his glasses for him. Aziraphale all but jumped at the sudden disturbance. 

"Oh! Oh, my dear Crowley. You startled me." He marked his book and closed it, offering a smile to the demon. 

"Yeah, I saw. Sorry 'bout that." 

Aziraphale procured a cup from the cupboard and spooned in cocoa powder before adding the hot water, steam rising with the smell of chocolate. "Would you like some hot cocoa, my dear?" 

"Coffee," Crowley declined, snapping his fingers for a cup of freshly brewed coffee. He sipped it, unbothered by the fact that it was boiling hot. 

The angel shook his head with a fond smile. "I do hope you've had a good nap. Er, sleep. It's been nearly a week. I, honestly, didn't think you'd wake up for another half a month." 

Crowley hummed into his cup, listening to what he recognized as the first light drops of rain. He glanced out the window of his flat, confirming that it did indeed start raining. The sun was actually beginning to set. His mind lingered over Aziraphale's words. It was strange. He did intend to sleep for about half a month. And yet... there he was, awake and drinking coffee. He reeled his mind more tightly to search for the reasoning. And then he remembered. He had a dream. A nightmare, to be exact. 

"Crowley?"

"Hm?" the demon muttered absently. 

"Are you alright, my dear?" 

Crowley looked away from the nowhere he was staring at and saw Aziraphale with a concerned face, almost pouting. He always thought that look on his angel was adorable. "I'm fine, angel. How're you?" 

"Oh, I'm just lovely! I've started rereading--well, re-rereading--a classic that I had forgotten about in a back shelf!" 

The rain grew harder outside, rapping on the windowpane. Then a lightning bolt crashed, and Crowley dropped his cup, momentarily forgetting his place. It was too spacious, he realized. Heaven was always too spacious. The crowding of wings and blood and blades and the smell of smoke and sulfur engulfing the fields. Crowley hated that stench and the noise. God, make it stop! 

"Crowley!" 

He came to, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Though he didn't need it, his body got used to breathing. Aziraphale had a hand on his arm, concern deepening on his face. 

"Are you sure you're quite alright, my dear? You seemed... Well... not alright." Aziraphale gestured his hand absently, vanishing the mess. The cup reappeared on the counter, repaired without a scratch and filled with coffee again. "My dear, you look quite pale! Please tell me what's bothering you." 

"I'm fine, angel." But even that sounded like a lie to Crowley himself. 

"Clearly, you are not." Aziraphale huffed exasperatedly and put his book aside, taking Crowley by the hand and leading him and the two of their cups to the tartan-blanketed couch by his fireplace--a homely addition Aziraphale had insisted on. He put the cups on the coffee table. "Now, my dear, I think we should have a little relaxing session. You look shaken, and I don't know what about, but I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of it eventually!" He pulled Crowley onto the couch with him and wrapped the blanket around them, sinking back into the cushions. "There. I heard that cuddling does some good for the mind. We can just stay right here until you feel comfortable and safe enough to say whatever it is you have on your mind." 

Crowley wanted to protest again, repeating that he was fine. But it was so warm with the fire miraculously crackling in the fireplace and Aziraphale holding him securely beneath the blanket that the words seemed to just melt away. He curled deeper into his angel and sighed, feeling the weight of sleep on him again. He wished this was how it was when he slept every time. 


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley flew as far as he could before something clipped his wing, sending him down like so many angels around him. He was vaguely aware of screaming and crying when he hit the ground. Fire still streaked across the sky, casting terrifying light. Crowley was trembling so hard, he didn't have the strength to even stand. "Why? How could You let this happen? How? Where are You? What are You doing, watching all this happen and not doing a damn thing about it?!"

There was no response. The battle raged on, spilling more blood and carving more fury and violence into the nonexistent hearts of the angels. Crowley, feeling the frustration and grief around him, propped himself up and crawled. He couldn't get his legs to move, but he gritted his teeth and cursed at himself to keep going. He didn't know where he was going, but he felt he had to move. Finally, his legs complied. With more effort than it should have been, he pulled himself up and took off, wings too hurt to fly.

Then he felt it. So powerful that it stopped him in his tracks. A secondary wave of grief and anger. All around him, the angels seemed to stop fighting, meaning they felt it too. A terrible, absolute heat of disappointment. But Crowley saw, from the corner of his eyes, a single angel still slaughtering and crying out in pain, in delight, in absolute madness. It scared Crowley in the likes of which he had never known before. And then the heat grew unbearable. The angel screamed in rage and his wings caught fire. It was a brilliant spark, showering horrific light across the heavens, as he fell. Through Heaven and below. Other angels' wings began to catch fire too, pulling them with him. Then Crowley felt it. Searing agony across his back. His wings caught fire. 

. . . 

Crowley jostled into the waking world, startled out of his panic by the snap of a dying fire. He drew a quick breath in and choked on it, grabbing the first cup he saw on the table to soothe his throat. Cocoa. He sighed, putting the cup back where he found it. Aziraphale stirred beneath him, opening one eye to peek at him. Crowley relaxed instantly at the sight of his angel. 

"A night terror?" Aziraphale murmured, sitting up and pressing a kiss to Crowley's temple. His fingers reached up to comb through Crowley's hair, trailing down to secure his hold with both hands around Crowley's waist, almost rocking him like a mother would with her child. "It's alright, my dear. I'm here." 

Crowley buried his face into the crook of Aziraphale's neck. "I-I'm fine, angel." 

"You're shaking, dear." He pulled the blanket over them both, wrapping them up in a conjoined bundle. A little miracle made the blanket just big enough. "Won't you tell me what's wrong?" 

Crowley hesitated. 

"Alright," Aziraphale murmured softly, restarting the fire with a flick of his fingers. "I've got you, Crowley. It's alright." 

He shuddered, curling closer to Aziraphale. Crowley felt like coiling in on himself, wanting so badly to turn into his serpent form. It would grant him just the slightest peace of mind to be free of his body. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale called, voice reminding him that he was very much an angel. "You don't have to speak if you don't want to. But I do want to help you, my dear. What's wrong?" 

"I keep dreaming." Crowley paused to lick his dry lips, sounding hoarse from sleep. "I keep dreaming about Heaven." 

"Heaven? They can't hurt you anymore, my dear. We both made sure of that." 

"No, no. Not Heaven-Heaven. Well, I mean, yeah. Heaven-Heaven. But, uh, what I mean is... I mean, Heaven as in before." Another pause. He needed to recollect himself. "I mean the War. The Rebellion. _That_ Heaven. All the fire and blood and screaming. I-I thought it was over and done with. I Fell. Nothing special. Lots of other angels Fell. But, I don't know why, I keep... dreaming about it. Nightmares. The fighting. The Falling." 

Aziraphale looked somber as he listened to Crowley, rubbing absent abstract shapes on his back to soothe him. 

"I don't even know why it's scaring me." 

"It's perfectly normal to be afraid of it," Aziraphale said quietly, barely above a whisper. "I'm still afraid of it, too. Crowley. It was an awful thing." 

"But why? Why do I keep... remembering? Dreaming? Is it punishment? Because I stopped the bloody end of the world?" 

" _We_ stopped the end of the world. Crowley, you can't be punished for it. We did the right thing." Aziraphale held him closer to himself. "I'm sure of it." 

"Then why?" He was pleading. Exactly as it had been in the battle, pleading for God. "I don't know why," Aziraphale said reluctantly. "I really don't. I'm so sorry, my dear. 

"'S alright, angel." Crowley had finally stopped shaking. He had gotten himself back together and rebuilt his cool facade. "I don't expect you to know or anything. But thanks. For, y'know. Listening." 

"Of course, Crowley."

After a moment of stale silence, Aziraphale decided that it would be the perfect time to sit comfortably with a few bottles of wine. Crowley couldn't agree more. So they sat by the miraculously never-dying fireplace with wine glasses sloshing its plum red contents haphazardly. Beneath the slurred chatter and heavy laughter, the tense moment died. Outside, the storm died down to steady, light rainfall. The hearth continued to crackle. Aziraphale was refilling his umpteenth glass of wine when Crowley slouched over the couch's arm. He twirled the neck of his cup between his fingers and watched it carefully turn, as if it were a new concept to behold. Aziraphale, in turn, stared at Crowley staring at his cup. The angel took a generous sip of his own glass, relaxing cozily from the sight of his lover.

"Angel," Crowley slurred, hiccuping. He nearly dropped his glass. 

"Yes'm'dear?" Aziraphale tried to steady his intoxicated mind, vaguely aware that whatever he tried to say was not supposed to be one whole word.

Crowley smashed his cheek into his fist in a poor attempt at propping himself up by the elbow, only managing to sag into his knuckles. "Ants." 

"Pardon?"

"Ants," Crowley repeated, burping as he absently reached for the wine bottle. He tipped it over on his glass and poured out nothing. "Ants, angel. They fight each other all the time. This home, that home. One colony. Two colonies. 'Arrg, my home. Get off m'lawn.' Do you suppose we fight like they do for our home?" 

Aziraphale made a noise that was half scoff and half giggle. "I suppose that's reason for fighting for each other." 

"I'm not a house, angel." Crowley put the empty bottle of wine back on the table, giving up trying to will contents from its nothingness. He chucked his glass onto the table too, for good measure. "Ohhhh. Wait, wait. You're an angel." 

"I suppose I am." 

"You were in Heaven," Crowley said, leaning towards Aziraphale who had just finished his glass of wine. "What do you remember? The fight, the war. The Rebellion. No, wait, wait. That's fucking miserable. Forget it." 

"I remember a lot, Crowley." Aziraphale sounded the slightest bit sober. But not enough to get rid of the slur in his words. "But nothing I'd talk about when not sober." He groaned, rubbing his eyes with his palms. "Give me a moment." 

"No, wait." 

Too late. Aziraphale was already pulling the alcohol from his system. The wine bottle was gradually becoming less empty. Well, shit. Now Crowley had to get sober. Reluctantly, the demon pulled the alcohol out of his system and put it all back into the wine bottle, grunting with effort and the sting of sudden sobriety. He was dizzy for a whole two seconds before everything became all too clear and sharp in his head. Aziraphale was tilting his head around, working knots out of his neck. He gave a shudder, now fully in the nightmare that was called reality. 

"Now, where were we?" 

"Going to bed?" Crowley suggested weakly. 

"I don't think that's a good idea if you'll get nightmares again, Crowley." Aziraphale readjusted the blanket to cover them both. "The war." 

Crowley grimaced. Really, he should've kept his drunken mouth shut. The ants were a fine topic. It didn't need to diverge into the war. Still, Crowley would give his full attention to Aziraphale's story. This was, after all, a pretty big topic. Crowley regretted being sober. 

. . . 

Aziraphale, as a principality, had to lead. It was a duty he was given as a divine soldier of Heaven. But the war was very unexpected, despite the speculations, rumors, and gossip among the angels. A full blown war caught everyone not involved with the rebellion off guard. Aziraphale didn't have time to collect his wits. But nobody seemed to pay much attention to him, thankfully. He was a principality more involved on Earth than in any heavenly ordeals. Still, he witnessed much of the gruesome scenes. He'd seen angels decapitated. Some would be so brutal as to cut off their wings, like trophies. Aziraphale wanted nothing to do with all that. But he had no choice. 

The war raged on. All Aziraphale could do was watch in horror. He was a protector more than a warrior. So that's what he did. He protected. On as many angels as he could, he cast his miracles to protect them. Little ones that went undetected against the headbutting powers of the hostile miracles between the warring angels. Aziraphale rushed around like that, casting undetected miracles to help, only ever as a protector. It wasn't enough, because some still lost their lives in spite of his efforts. And he prayed so hard for the end of the battle.

Fire spiraled all around him as the falling angels suffering the wrath of God. Aziraphale could only watch, could only pray. Still, at the end of the battle, there were too many battered, broken, and dead. His miracles left him untouched. Though, sometimes, Aziraphale wished he could have taken another's place if it meant their well-being. 

. . . 

"That's not fair," Crowley said. 

"What isn't fair?" 

"You can't regret being alive, angel. It's their bloody fault for engaging in a war in the first place. We're just smart enough to stay out of it. And that wasn't easy work! I worked hard to stay out of the damn war." Crowley made a disdainful noise in his throat. 

"Crowley." Aziraphale shifted beneath the blanket. "Your nightmares of the war. May I see? I want to know what happened to you. And, maybe--just maybe--I can help somehow." 

Crowley stared at him, uncertain as to how to respond. "You want to... see?" 

"Why, yes. I'm an angel, after all. I can peer into dreams." 

"No, I know that, angel! I just-- I mean, you really want to see? It's not exactly a fun movie for girls' night out." 

"I-- what? Er, I do want to see. If it's alright with you. If it isn't too invasive. I just... would like to know. But, of course, it's completely understandable that you wouldn't want me to see! Completely--" 

"Calm down, angel. I don't mind. I'm just concerned for you. It's not a pretty sight." 

Azirahale fiddled with the end of his blanket, nervous and hesitant. Then he drew a shaky breath, drawing himself up with confidence. "Well. I'd like to. If you please. I think it would do you some good, Crowley. Sharing the burden, as it were." 

Crowley was very uncertain about it. Dreams and nightmares happen during a state of vulnerability. Getting too close could mean a multitude of issues. But Crowley did trust Aziraphale. With his life and more. Hesitantly, Crowley nodded. "Sure. Let's... see my nightmares." 


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley curled into Aziraphale again, nestling into him to find comfort. It didn't take as much effort as he thought it would. The rhythmic brushing of Aziraphale's fingers over his back and the soft humming from the angel lulled him right to sleep. For a moment, Crowley only recognized darkness, the in-between world of waking and dreaming. Then he saw the skies, alight with crimson and gold in a twisted fiery torrent. The shouts and cries and lashes of fire faded into his senses with the invading scents of sulfur and smoke and blood. The air was thick with it, heavy with grief and fury that seemed to hang onto Crowley's body. He was running, weaving his way through, terrified of the skies. His wings didn't work, didn't _want_ to work. 

Then he all but crashed into Aziraphale. Several emotions run through Crowley. Relief from seeing a familiar face, fear from the dangers that threaten said face, and an overwhelming desire to break down into Aziraphale's arms and cry until the battle was over. He didn't do that. It would've strained the dream into waking him. He wasn't done yet with the gruesome scenario. 

"It's alright," Aziraphale said, grabbing hold of Crowley's hand and leading him away from the main violence of the battle. "You're safe with me. I promise, my dear." 

"Mmnng," Crowley said helpfully. 

"My, this is rather awful. It certainly is a sight from your end, my dear. No wonder you are so frightened." 

Just as a bolt of heat shot through the sky, Aziraphale unleashed his wings and wrapped them around Crowley, shielding them both from the blinding heat and energy. Aziraphale let out a sigh, not the least bit affected. Crowley, on the other hand, was still terrified for Aziraphale. He couldn't stand the mere thought of his angel harmed because of his stupid night terror. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale called softly. His wings flexed around them. "I told you, my dear boy, that you are safe with me." 

"And you? You-- Are you safe with me?" 

He smiled fondly at his demon. "Of course. I will be just fine." 

"Told you, angel," Crowley said with a forced cocky smile. "Not a pretty sight." 

"No, indeed not. But if this is necessary to help you, I will gladly endure it." 

"Don't say that." 

Then Crowley felt it. Searing agony across his back. He clung to Aziraphale, so tightly that he was sure his nails would cut indents into his angel's skin. But he was too occupied with fear and pain. 

"Crowley? Crowley, what's wrong?" Aziraphale gripped his arms, trying to steady his shaking body. "Crowley?" 

"No! Angel, get away from me!" 

But it was too late. Fire engulfed Crowley's wings. He fell. And, to his horror, he was dragging Aziraphale down with him. He thrashed, trying fruitlessly to throw Aziraphale away as if his throw could land the angel back in heaven. The force of the Fall kept Crowley's mouth shut and his throat voiceless. He couldn't speak, couldn't scream. This was horrible. 

. . . 

"AZIRAPHALE!" Crowley jolted awake, nearly falling off the couch. 

Aziraphale grabbed him, holding onto him to steady his balance. "Careful, my dear. I'm alright. And you are as well." 

"You-you-! I thought I-- You almost-- And the... the fire! The Fall!" 

Aziraphale pulled Crowley close to him, rubbing soothing shapes into his back again. "Shh, my dear. Don't worry. It was all a dream." A slight miracle calmed Crowley's nerves. 

Crowley let out a shaky breath, rattling his rib cage. For a good moment, they stayed just like that: Crowley holding onto Aziraphale while said angel kept running his fingers in soothing pathways down and up the demon's back. Then Aziraphale began absently humming, which seemed to make Crowley relax further into his angel. He shook his head, stopping Aziraphale's soft melody. 

"Stop. I don't want to fall asleep again." 

"Crowley." Aziraphale pulled his cup of cocoa into his hand with a miracle, letting the warm smell of chocolate wash over them. "The Fall isn't all that you are. You're much more than that." 

"I know." Crowley sighed, dejectedly sipping the cocoa from Aziraphale's hold. "I just don't know why I'm even dreaming about all this. It's all over and done with. It's not like I can just... not remember or change everything or something." 

Aziraphale thought silently for a moment, letting Crowley finish his cup of cocoa. Then he vanished the cup while Crowley was leaning to drink the last drop. Aziraphale held Crowley closer to him, smiling slgihtly. "I think I know just the spell to make you better, my dear!" 

"Really? You think that will help?" 

Aziraphale nodded. 

"Well, what is it? A dreamless sleep concoction like that book about witches talked about?" 

"No, something better." Aziraphale placed a soft kiss on Crowley's temple, then another on the other, then another on his nose, then a last kiss on his lips. "There! That should remind you that I'm always here for you." 

Crowley touched a finger to his lips, confused. "Angel. That wasn't magic." 

"In its own way, it is. Because, Crowley." Aziraphale entwined his hand with Crowley's, kissing him again on the forehead. "I love you." 

This made the demon choke and stutter over his words, turning a glowing shade of red. 

"I'll catch you, Crowley," Aziraphale said softly, wrapping the blanket tighter around them. "Every time you fall--whether it be in dream or in reality--I'll catch you. That's the truth. And the truth is like a spell, right?" 

Crowley stuffed the lower half of his face into the blankets, muffling his words. "I guess." 

Aziraphale giggled then wriggled beneath the covers, poking his arm out and reaching for Crowley's ear. He pulled back with a quarter between his fingers and a grin on his face. Crowley stared at him, unimpressed by the magic trick. Aziraphale wiggled it in the air then made it disappear in his palm, only to drop it from his sleeve. Crowley couldn't help laughing. 

"Angel," he said fondly between a breath of laughter. "You have real magic!" 

"But real magic doesn't make you laugh like I just did." 

Crowley smiled. "Let's get some sleep now, angel. Some actual sleep." 

"That sounds delightful." He kissed Crowley on the cheek and snuggled closer to him. "Goodnight, Crowley." 

"Night, angel." 


End file.
